


You Are the Last Star in My Heaven

by CompletelyCreative



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Dean writes a letter, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Medical Patient Dean, Nurse Castiel, mhm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4136094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompletelyCreative/pseuds/CompletelyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their first night on the rooftops, Castiel imagined his perfect boyfriend to write a letter for him every morning when he woke up. Dean wrote that first letter.</p>
<p>Day 7 of My <a href="http://scarlettcharlie.tumblr.com/post/120572418981/fandom-songs-writing-challenge">Fandom-Songs 30 Day Writing Challenge</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are the Last Star in My Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Day 7 of My [Fandom-Songs 30 Day Writing Challenge](http://scarlettcharlie.tumblr.com/post/120572418981/fandom-songs-writing-challenge)
> 
> This day is based off of the song "Here's Your Letter" by blink-182

Cas,

Here it is. What you wanted, what you wished. This is about the fifth draft that I've written, I just can't seem to get the words right. I suppose it's different, though, from all those years ago. I just remember hearing, the first time that we laid on the roof together, that your dream boyfriend would write you love letters, every morning when you woke up. Well, they all tell me that I'm no longer your boyfriend, and I can't write for shit, so I guess I should have taken that hint right then. But I'm still doing it. Here it is.

Here's your letter.

I suppose that this is not really a love letter, either. I don't really know what that is anymore, you see. I can't tell if it was you that ruined it for me, or the clouds that I don't see out of my window anymore. All I really know, is that you're not really here anymore. I mean, I see you, yeah. But you never come and say hello anymore. You just always said that the best thing that anyone could do for you, would be to write you a letter. And I want to do something nice before I go, if I ever go. You're the only thing that matters to me here, anyway.

The first time I saw you, you weren't dressed in anything special. In fact, you looked just like everyone else that wasn't me. But you smiled at me whenever you saw me, and that 'struck a chord.' That's what you used to say, all the time. 'Struck a chord.' When I first asked what you meant by that, you told me that was what I did to you. I struck your chords. I now realize that you are still striking mine, really.

You were the first person in this place, that made me talk. All of the others before you were just thin-smiled, big-nosed people that didn't really care how I was, or what I was doing. But you told me about your day, and what you were going to do, whenever you saw me. And you might not know it, but those one-sided conversations were what really pulled me apart, left me exposed. You were the first person that I talked to, and when I did say something, you beamed at me like you had just won a race. Like you had made it a personal goal of yours to get me to say 'hello' to you in the morning. It worked, and we were both so glad it did. 

To be honest, you didn't have to try very hard to hook me, either. I always just got lost in your eyes when you looked at me, like I was looking into the bottom of the ocean. If you think about it, there aren't really very many things in nature that are blue. There's water, there's the sky, there are bluebirds and bluebells... but there has never been anything quite like your eyes. It amazed me, and I always asked for you to bring me sunglasses the next time you saw me. You asked me why, and I could just answer, 'so I won't be blinded by the sun in your sky.' By then, I really did like you. 

On Sundays, we were together for the whole day, from 8 A.M. to 9 P.M.. We played silly games; you always won at checkers, and I never liked the game 'Sorry.' You laughed when I pushed the board away from me in annoyance, claiming that it was 'unfair' and that you had a 'mind advantage.' You told me that just because you had a medical degree, didn't make you any faster, or smarter, or brighter than me. That is the nicest thing that I remember from you, and because of that, I always hated when you had to lock the games away, and kiss my forehead goodnight. You never left until I choked out a 'goodnight' as well, but even after that, I found it difficult to fall asleep alone.

We got closer than that, of course. You sometimes snuck us out onto the rooftops at night, where we would feed each other saltines and warm cider, sometimes sparkling. You went from kissing my forehead, to kissing my nose, to my cheeks, to my lips, and I was always left with my cheeks rosy but cold. You saw me every day, and you loved it. I loved it, too, but not from the attention, or the cider, or the kisses. But I loved it because of you. I loved it a little more, and a little more, all because of you. And then, I said that I loved you.

That's when it started to go wrong, I guess. I don't think you loved me, at least not in the way that I loved you. That's okay, though. I shouldn't have ever expected you to. Because that went wrong, though, I guess other things went wrong with it. You once told me that your luck ran like dominoes. If one thing fell, the next fell with it. If one thing rose, others would too. My words were the first domino. Apparently, whoever your boss was heard of my words, and although I said that I took them back, he didn't hear that part. You got in trouble, I heard, and you weren't allowed to see me much anymore. And I know that you hated Shakespeare, and you needed money, I guess, and so I heard of the end of that.

After I heard of the end of that, though, I didn't want to hear anything. Apparently when I slept alone at night, I talked to myself. I don't know about what, no one would tell me, but I don't want to bet that the ceiling wasn't my only audience, and that I was talking about you. I regret it, of course. In a way, I regret everything that I did with you. I regret talking to you on Sundays, I regret loving sparkling cider, I regret hating board games. I even regret the things that I did unconsciously. But most of all, I regret saying that I love you. I regret the fact that it's not past-tense.

I wonder if you'll ever read this.

They're letting me go this Saturday. I'm going to be out, I'm going to be free. They said that my brain is going back into balance, and that I'll be okay from the hospital. I don't doubt if it is thanks to you. So when I get out, I'm going to get my car keys, and I'm going to say hello to my family. I'm going to go to my favorite dive bar with my little brother, and the morning after that... I'm going to buy a bottle of sparkling apple cider. 

And I am going to share it with you, with saltines and the stars. I just hope you feel the same way, and I have a feeling that once you see me out of a gown, you'll start to. 

You once told me that your perfect boyfriend would write you a letter every morning. Well, I didn't write very much when I was in bed, and I only counted my mornings when I saw you in them. So, I don't have a thousand letters to give you, for this is unfortunately not the Notebook... but I wrote one. And here it is.

Here's your letter.

-Dean


End file.
